New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers celebrates the joy and romance of Christmas in New England

Clare Morgan is ready for a fresh start when she moves to the small Massachusetts town of Knights Bridge with her young son, Owen. Widowed for six years, Clare settles into her job as the town’s new librarian. She appreciates the warm welcome she and Owen receive and truly enjoys getting the library ready for its role in the annual holiday open house.

Clare expects to take it slow with her new life. Then she meets Logan Farrell, a Boston ER doctor in town to help his elderly grandmother settle into assisted living. Slow isn’t a word Logan seems to understand. Accustomed to his fast-paced city life, he doesn’t plan to stay in Knights Bridge for long. But Daisy Farrell has other ideas and enlists her grandson to decorate her house on the village green one last time. Logan looks to Clare for help. She can go through Daisy’s book collection and help him decorate while she’s at it.

As Clare and Logan get his grandmother’s house ready for the holidays, what neither of them expects to find is an attraction to each other. Better than most, they know all the crazy things that can happen in life, but everything about Knights Bridge and this magical season invites them to open themselves to new possibilities…and new love.

A Knights Bridge Christmas

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Leo and Oona

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

A Recipe for Applesauce Spice Cake with Maple Frosting or Cream Cheese Frosting

Five

Six

A Recipe for Oat Waffles

Seven

Eight

Nine

A Recipe for Molasses Cookies

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

A Recipe for Hot Chocolate

Fourteen

Fifteen

A Recipe for Baked Sweet Potatoes and Apples

A Recipe for Chive-and-Parsley Butter

Epilogue

Author Note

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“I cannot change! I cannot! It’s not that I’m impenitent, it’s just... Wouldn’t it be better if I just went home to bed?”

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

December 1945

FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD DAISY BLANCHARD paused on South Main Street and sighed at the once-stately house across from the Knights Bridge common, just past the town library. Built in 1892, the house had a curving front porch, tall windows and Victorian details that must have looked grand in their day. Now, a week before Christmas, the house looked shabby and forlorn against the gray winter sky. It wasn’t decorated. There wasn’t so much as a wreath on the front door.

It was, by far, the worst-looking house in the village.

My house, Daisy thought with dismay.

Even through the war, she and her mother had managed to decorate for Christmas. They would scour the house for bits of ribbon and yarn and they would cut evergreen boughs and gather pinecones in the yard. They’d learned to be resourceful. Everyone in their small town west of Boston had done the same—using, reusing, mending, sharing what they had. Other homes, businesses, churches, the library and town offices were decorated for the season. The First Congregational Church had a crèche, and a family of carrot-nosed, top-hatted snowmen greeted shoppers at the country store.

The only reason her house wasn’t decorated, Daisy knew, was because her father believed decorating was a waste of time and effort.

He was another Ebenezer Scrooge.

She felt bad for such thinking. Give him time, her mother had told her. Daisy was trying but it wasn’t easy when she so desperately wanted to have fun this Christmas. For more than three years, her father had been away at war, serving in the navy in the Atlantic. She’d missed him so much. When he’d come home in September, she’d been so excited. But he’d changed during the war, and so had she. She’d grown up. She wasn’t a child anymore. She couldn’t explain the changes in him, except that fighting the war and being away had taken a toll. He didn’t talk about his experience, but she knew he must have seen terrible things.

With the end of the war, the people of Knights Bridge were in the mood to throw off their worries and sadness and celebrate, if with a deep sense of appreciation for the sacrifices especially of those who had given their lives. When her father frustrated her—which was often these days—Daisy tried to remember how grateful she was he’d come home safe and sound. That wasn’t the case for so many.

She heard someone behind her and turned, surprised to see Tom Farrell running down the library steps. He would never consider the steps might be icy. He had a stack of books in one arm. He was a senior, and he would be the first in his family to graduate from high school. He wanted to be a firefighter. He was already a volunteer firefighter. Given the books in his arms, Daisy knew he would have at least one report due for school, and he would be late. It was always the same. Somehow, though, he would turn in his work in the nick of time.

He grinned as he caught up with her. “Hi, Daisy.” He spoke in that easygoing, confident way that was uniquely Tom Farrell. “I saw you in the library but I was too far away to say hello. I didn’t want to shout and risk getting thrown out.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I’m doing a report on Charles Dickens for English class. I decided to read A Christmas Carol because it’s short.” He spoke cheerfully, moving his arm slightly so Daisy could see that, indeed, he had a copy of the Charles Dickens story with him. “That’s the one about Scrooge, isn’t it?”

“It is. Ebenezer Scrooge. He’s visited by three spirits on Christmas Eve.”

Tom shrugged, obviously not concerned about his report. “At least it won’t be boring. Are you heading home?”

Daisy nodded. “I have verbs to conjugate for Latin class.”

“Latin.” He shuddered. “Miss Webster’s too tough for me.”

“I have English with her, too.”

“Lucky you. I’m on my way to the firehouse. Why don’t I walk with you?”

Tom Farrell was walking with her? Daisy warned herself not to read anything into it, but she felt her heart jump. She knew her cheeks had to be flushed, but she could blame the cold weather. She wore a secondhand tweed wool coat from a cousin over a dress she’d sewn herself, with kneesocks and lace-up shoes. She’d knitted her hat herself but hadn’t worn mittens. Tom had on old clothes, hand-me-downs, no doubt, from his older brother. Angus Farrell had been killed in Holland last year. That was all Daisy knew. It was something no one talked about. She remembered him, always laughing, always with a good word for everyone. He’d been a medic in the army, and it was hard to believe he wouldn’t be coming home to Knights Bridge.

Her father was out front when she and Tom arrived at the house. For a moment, Daisy thought her father might have relented about decorating, but then she saw he was sweeping the porch steps, grumbling about the postman’s muddy feet. Unexpected guests were worse, even, than postmen with muddy boots. She was afraid he was about to lash out at both her and Tom, but Tom quickly stepped forward with a disarming smile. “Good to see you, Mr. Blanchard.”

“Tom.”

“I think we’re due for a big snowstorm, don’t you?”

“Could be. We’ll know when it happens.”

For a moment, Daisy thought her father might smile, but he didn’t, just resumed his sweeping. Embarrassed, she turned to Tom. “Good luck with your book report.”

“Good luck with your Latin verbs.”

“Maybe I’ll check out A Christmas Carol when you’re finished with it. It’s an inspiring story. A cheap, grouchy man learns not to give in to despair and bitterness.”

Tom eyed her, then her father, who didn’t look up from his sweeping. More heat poured into her cheeks, this time because she’d been caught. She could see in Tom’s expression he knew why she’d made her comment.

“I’ll see you around, Daisy,” he said amiably.

She watched him as he ambled across South Main to the common and made his way to the fire station. When she turned around again, her father had gone inside, shutting the front door behind him. He hadn’t said a word or made a sound.

How much time were they supposed to give him? He simply wasn’t the same man who’d left Knights Bridge in 1942. He and her mother had moved to town just before Daisy was born, scraping enough money together to buy the old house on the common. Married as teenagers, they’d been forced to leave their home in the Swift River Valley town of Greenwich, wiped off the map to make way for Quabbin Reservoir.

When her father left for the war after Pearl Harbor, the dams blocking the Swift River and Beaver Brook were doing their work, allowing the valley—stripped bare of everything from houses and businesses to trees and graves—to fill with drinking water for Boston to the east. When he returned in September, the seven-year process of filling the reservoir was almost complete. The town his family had called home for generations was gone, underwater. Hills he’d once sledded down were now islands.

Sometimes Daisy wondered if her father must feel as if he was back home in the valley, drowning under all that water.

She mounted the steps to the porch, neatly swept and barren of Christmas decorations. What would he do if she made a wreath and hung it on the front door? What would her mother do? But Daisy knew she wouldn’t find out. She would respect her mother’s wishes and give her father time.

As she opened the bare front door, she looked back at the common, Tom now out of sight. She was a more dedicated student than he was, but it wasn’t just that. Homework gave her an excuse to stay in her room, away from her Scrooge of a father.

* * *

Two days later, Tom arrived at the Blanchard house with ice skates, the laces tied together, slung over one shoulder and a small metal box in his hands. Daisy had answered the doorbell, but her father was right behind her. She was caught off guard and didn’t know what to say. “Did you finish your report?” she finally asked.

Tom grinned. “With minutes to spare. How did you do with your Latin verbs?”

“They’re not due until tomorrow.”

“But you’re done, right? Good for you. I’m meeting friends on Echo Lake to go skating.” His expression changed as he made eye contact with her father. Confident Tom Farrell suddenly looked uncertain and awkward. “Sir... Mr. Blanchard...” Tom cleared his throat. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

Daisy felt her father stiffen as he eased in next to her in the doorway. “A favor?” He grunted, clearly skeptical. “What kind of favor?”

Tom hesitated, then opened the box. Inside was a white candle, or what was left of it. Its wick was blackened, and melted wax had congealed on the sides, reducing it to a misshapen mass. Daisy saw that her father was frowning at it, too.

Either Tom didn’t notice their expressions or was simply undeterred. He held the box toward her father. “I wonder if you would place this candle in your front window and light it on Christmas Eve.”

“Why?” her father asked.

“For my brother.”

Daisy gasped but her father remained still and silent.

“My mother made the candle when Angus joined the army. She promised to burn it every Christmas until he came home. Well...” Tom took in an audible breath. “He’s not coming home, even to bury. Mom can’t bear to burn the candle herself, but she said it would be all right if someone in the village did.”

“Tom,” Daisy’s father said, his voice strangled. “Son...”

“I’ll understand if it’s too much to ask—”

“It’s not too much.” He put out a calloused hand and took the box. “We’d be honored, wouldn’t we, Daisy?”

She nodded and managed to mumble a yes.

Tom smiled, tears shining in his hazel eyes. “Thank you.”

With tears in her own eyes, Daisy watched the rugged, easygoing teenager cross South Main to the common, picking up his pace as he waved and called cheerfully to his friends.

It was at that moment she fell in love with Tom Farrell.

One

“He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember on Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.”

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

CLARE MORGAN HADN’T felt this happy in a long time. A very long time, she thought as she gathered up books to take to Rivendell, the local assisted-living facility. She prided herself on her self-sufficiency and independence—her professionalism as a librarian—and she was happy in countless ways, but this was different. This was happiness born of contentment. The uncertainties of the past few months were lifting and confidence settling in that she’d made the right decision to leave Boston and come to out-of-the-way Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.

New to the town and its small, charming library, Clare was getting a feel for the reading preferences of the seniors at Rivendell. Audrey Frost liked cozy mysteries, particularly ones set in England. Grace Webster would read anything but was partial to literary fiction and classic adventure novels. Arthur Potter had asked Clare to bring him all the Harry Potter books, since he and Harry shared the same last name and he’d always wanted to be a wizard. Daisy Farrell, Rivendell’s newest resident, had requested A Christmas Carol, the classic Dickens story apparently a favorite with her and her late husband.

Almost everyone at the facility was widowed, but Clare gathered that many had enjoyed long marriages.

Except one feisty woman in her late eighties whose name Clare had forgotten. “I’ve never lived alone until four years, three months and eighteen days ago,” she’d said when Clare had delivered her a stack of biographies. “It’s heaven on earth.”

Clare was a widow herself, but she wasn’t sure how many people in her new town were aware that she’d been married. She had enjoyed the entire one year, two months and three days of her marriage to Stephen Morgan. Every single second had been bliss—including the inevitable arguments. That he’d been gone for six years seemed inconceivable. But every day she saw him in Owen, their six-year-old son, born seven weeks after his father’s untimely death in a car accident.

She put the books in a box, careful not to overfill it and make it impossible to carry. The seniors also had several book clubs that met both at Rivendell and at the library. Vera Galeski, a part-time worker at the library, had taken Clare through the various book clubs. Her predecessor as library director, Phoebe O’Dunn, born and raised in Knights Bridge, had run a tight ship. She’d left Clare with a balanced budget and a well-trained group of volunteers, among them several mobile residents of the assisted-living facility.

She checked her watch. Three o’clock. Owen, a first-grader, would be walking from school soon to play with Aidan and Tyler Sloan at their house. So far, Owen was adjusting well to his new school. It had only been six weeks since his and Clare’s arrival in Knights Bridge, and she expected bumps in the road—but small ones, especially compared to the huge one of losing Stephen. Owen, of course, didn’t remember his father. He was a photo in an album, part of funny stories Clare told about life before he was born.

Stephen had been the love of her life. It wasn’t something she told her young son, but she didn’t hide it, either.

She got on with her work. She went out the heavy front door and took the ramp instead of the stairs. In anticipation of the run out to Rivendell, she’d parked on South Main in front of the library, a sturdy mostly brick building donated to the town in 1872 by George Sanderson, whose stern portrait hung above the fireplace in the main sitting room. As far as Clare knew, there were no Sandersons left in Knights Bridge.

She hit the button on her key fob to unlock the car doors. She popped the trunk, setting the box inside next to ice skates she’d found at a secondhand sports store in Amherst, a nearby college town. Owen desperately wanted to learn to ice skate. He insisted six was old enough. Every winter for the past fifty-plus years, the town had created an outdoor rink on the common. It was an “at your own risk” operation, with no supervision, no walls to grab hold of—not even a proper place to warm up. Hypothermia and frostbite were real concerns in a New England winter.

Clare put the brakes on her litany of concerns. Questions, she told herself. Not worries. She wasn’t a panicky, overprotective mother and didn’t want to become one. She was asking appropriate questions and taking appropriate precautions without turning either Owen or herself into chronic fretters.

But she’d been on South Main last week when two teenage boys had collided, requiring Band-Aids and a lot of cursing if not a trip to the ER and stitches.

Still...

Clare got in her car. Bringing books to the seniors at Rivendell was one of the easy, low-tech, low-stress parts of her job, and she loved it.

She glanced back at the library. It was decked out with twin wreaths on the front door, swags of greenery around the windows and a trio of grapevine reindeer next to the steps. Tasteful and festive. Decorating for the holidays was a long-standing tradition in Knights Bridge. According to the trustees of the Knights Bridge Free Public Library, most of the decorations, accumulated over decades, had succumbed to a roof leak last winter, but many had been in need of discarding or replacing. Few were missed. The library had its secrets, but not many treasures. By the time Clare started work, volunteers had already dived in to create new decorations, particularly with natural materials. Except for one anemic-looking grapevine reindeer, the results were impressive, and she and Owen had plans to rehabilitate the reindeer.

She turned off South Main at the end of the oblong-shaped common onto the main road out to the highway. Freshly fallen snow added to the festive atmosphere. What could be more perfect than Christmas in her small New England town?

This would be her and Owen’s best Christmas ever, Clare thought, smiling as she drove on the winding road.

* * *

Knights Bridge’s only assisted-living facility was located in a beautiful spot with views of snow-covered meadows that gave way to woods. In the distance, Clare could see a sliver of water, not yet frozen over, that she knew to be part of Quabbin, a vast reservoir built in the 1930s by the damming of the Swift River. Many of the elderly residents of Rivendell knew people who’d lived in the valley, or had lived there themselves, before its four small towns had been taken over by the state and disincorporated, their entire populations forced to relocate.

The “accidental wilderness,” Quabbin was called now, with its protected waters and watershed. On a previous visit to Rivendell, Grace Webster, a retired teacher and avid bird-watcher, had told Clare about the return of bald eagles to the valley.

She grabbed the box of books and headed inside, setting the box on a chest-high wall unit in the corridor. She waved to the receptionist, who was expecting the delivery, but the young woman was dealing with a man in expensive-looking dark brown cords and a canvas shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he visibly tried to control his impatience. “Her name is Daisy Farrell,” he said. “She’s your newest resident. She’s in good health for a woman in her eighties, but I want to review her care with your medical staff.”

“Of course,” the flustered receptionist said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize today’s moving day for Mrs. Farrell. I only just got in.”

He calmed down. “Thank you.”

One of those imperious, successful men who likes to get his way, Clare thought as she worked a sore muscle in her arm from carrying the heavy box. She would bet the man wasn’t from Knights Bridge. Why was he interested in Daisy Farrell? Clare pushed her questions aside. It didn’t matter. Whatever his reasons for being here, she doubted he’d ever show up again.

The man left the receptionist to fulfill his request and seemed to notice Clare for the first time. He glanced at the books in the box. “That’s quite a range of titles.”

“It’s quite a range of people who live here.” She didn’t manage to keep the starch out of her voice.

If he noticed, he didn’t pay any attention. “No doubt. Are you from the library?”

“Clare Morgan. I’m the new library director.”

“Nice to meet you, Clare. I’m Logan Farrell. Daisy Farrell—the woman I was biting off the poor receptionist’s head over—is my grandmother.” He breathed deeply. “It’s harder than I thought to move her in here.”

Clare noticed a nick on his hand and bits of cardboard on his shirt. She also noticed the muscles in his forearms. He had short-cropped dark hair, hazel eyes and a strong jaw—strong features in general, perhaps part of the reason she’d misread him. She knew better than to judge people, given her work and her natural disposition. Logan Farrell might be impatient and even arrogant, but he was here with his aging grandmother.

“She could use a cheerful book to read,” he added.

Clare smiled. “I’m sure that can be arranged. She requested A Christmas Carol.”

“I don’t know how cheerful the ghost of Jacob Marley is. Scared the hell out of me as a kid. Have you met my grandmother?”

“Not yet.”

“She has a house on Knights Bridge common and used to walk to the library, but she hasn’t been out much since she took a fall in November.” Logan glanced at the nick on his hand, as if noticing it for the first time. “I can introduce you if you’d like.”

Even if the offer was to assuage his guilt at getting caught being impatient with the receptionist, Clare accepted. “I’d love to meet Mrs. Farrell,” she said.

Daisy Farrell’s grandson was clearly out of his element in a small-town assisted-living facility, talking to the local librarian. As Clare followed him down the hall, she wondered what kind of work he did and where he lived. Boston? Hartford? Somewhere farther afield—had he flown in to visit his widowed grandmother?

The door was open to a small apartment, where an elderly white-haired woman was standing on a chair, hammer in hand. She had on baggy yoga pants, a pink hoodie and silver sneakers.

Logan sucked in an audible breath. “Gran,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Hanging my sampler.”

Clare noticed a cross-stitched sampler on a chest of drawers. Neatly stitched flowers and farm animals created a frame for the simple inscription:

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

Daisy Farrell in a nutshell, Clare suspected.

“I can hang the sampler for you, Gran.” Logan put a hand out. “Come on.”

She grinned at him. “Getting up here was easy. I figured I’d need help getting down.”

“Had a plan, did you?”

“Enough of one. Let me finish and—”

“We have company,” he said. “We can finish in a few minutes.”

She sighed. “All right, all right.”

He took her hammer and helped her down from the chair. “Gran, this is Clare Morgan, the new librarian in town. Clare, my grandmother, Daisy Farrell.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Farrell,” Clare said.

“Same here,” the older woman said politely. “You’re not from town, are you?”

Clare shook her head. “My parents moved to Amherst after my sister and I went to college, but we grew up outside Boston. I lived in Boston until I relocated to Knights Bridge in November. My son’s in first grade.” She smiled. “We’re both adjusting.”

“Then you’re married?” Daisy Farrell asked. “What’s your husband do?”

“I’m widowed, Mrs. Farrell.”

Clare noticed Logan’s sharp look, as if he hadn’t considered such a thing.

“Oh, dear,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “You’re so young. A fresh start here will be good for you. Knights Bridge is a wonderful town—not that I’ve known any other. Well, until now. I lived in the same house all my life. I was born in an upstairs bedroom.”

Logan touched her elbow. “Here, have a seat, Gran. We’ll get your sampler hung. It’ll help this place feel more like home.”

“It will, but I’m not feeling sorry for myself. You and your father didn’t drag me kicking and spitting into seeing I had to move. I knew it had to be done.” She sank into a chair upholstered in a cheerful fabric. “Grace Webster says she’ll let me borrow her binoculars until I get a pair, so I can watch the birds, and Audrey Frost wants to sign me up for yoga. What do you think of that, Logan? Audrey’s younger than I am. Can I handle yoga?”

“I’ll check with your internist, but I don’t see why not, if it’s designed for seniors.”

“Well, I won’t be doing headstands, I can tell you that.”

“I just got you off a chair, Gran.”

She waved a hand. “Life is full of perils.”

Logan rolled his eyes, good-natured with his grandmother. “That’s not an excuse for being reckless.”

“Reckless.” Daisy snorted and turned to Clare. “I fell doing the dishes. I’ve done the dishes every day for the past eighty years. Fortunately I didn’t break anything when I fell. All’s well that ends well.” She leaned forward. “You can tell that to Dr. Farrell.”

Dr. Farrell? Clare glanced at him and decided she wasn’t surprised that he was a doctor.

“Dr. Farrell is glad you didn’t break your hip,” he said.

“I am, too. I’d have hated to have one of the Sloan brothers find me half-dead on the kitchen floor. I had them in to fix a leak in the cellar before winter set in.”

Owen would be playing with the sons of one of the five Sloan brothers by now, Clare thought. Sloan & Sons was an established, respected construction firm in town. She hadn’t figured out all their stories yet, but she did know that the sixth Sloan sibling was a woman and a main player in her family’s company.

Clare nodded to the sampler. “It’s lovely. Did you do the stitching yourself, Mrs. Farrell?”

“My mother did. I hung it in the kitchen where I could see it every morning.” She sighed, staring at the simple stitches, then seemed to force herself out of her drifting thoughts. “Logan, don’t you have more boxes to bring in from the car?”

“A couple more, Gran.”

“I can help,” Clare said without thinking, already moving into the hall.

“Thank you,” Logan said, catching up with her.

His car, of course, was the expensive one parked next to hers. He opened the back door. “I have everything out of the trunk. I had a delivery service do most of the big stuff. Gran had everything set to go.”

“She planned the move?”

“It was her idea.” He lifted a cardboard box out of the backseat. “She said she wanted to make it easier on us by making the decision to move herself.”

“That’s sweet.”

“That’s my gran.” He nodded to the box in his arms. “It’s some linens she wants here with her. It’s not heavy.”

“I’ll manage,” Clare said, taking the box. “I’m used to hauling books.”

He took a bigger, bulkier box from the backseat—clothes, he said—and they went back inside. “Let’s hope she’s not back up on that chair,” he said as he and Clare came to his grandmother’s apartment.

She was sitting in her chair, flipping through a small, obviously old photo album. “Here it is,” she said, lifting out a faded black-and-white photograph. “This is the house decorated for the first Christmas after the end of the war. World War II,” she added, as if Logan might not know. She handed the photograph to him. “I have one favor to ask, Logan. Can you decorate the house again, for one last Christmas before it’s sold?”

“Gran...you know you don’t have to sell the place.”

“We’ll talk about that later. You can decorate the house however you want, but if you look closely at the picture, you’ll see a candle in the front window.” She paused, touching the photograph. “Place a candle there, won’t you? In that same window?”

“Of course,” Logan said, clearly mystified by his grandmother’s request.

“A real candle. Then light it on Christmas Eve, or get someone to light it.”

He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I will, Gran, and we’ll light it together on Christmas Eve. They do let you out of here, you know.”

“You’ll be in town for Christmas?”

He smiled. “I will now.”

“But your work...” She frowned at him. “There are always a lot of accidents in Boston at Christmas. I don’t want you to miss helping someone because you feel sorry for me.”

“If I’m not at the hospital, Gran, another doctor will be. The emergency department has more than one qualified doctor.”

“But you’re their best,” Daisy said.

Logan stood straight. “That’s kind of you to say, Gran.”

She shifted to Clare. “If I were in an accident, I would want Logan in the ER to stop the bleeding.”

He changed the subject, asking her if she wanted him to unload the two boxes. Clare quickly set hers on a dresser. An ER. An accident. Winter...Christmas...

She noticed Logan narrowing his eyes on her with obvious concern and realized she was breathing rapidly. It was as if the exchange between him and his grandmother had transported her into her own past.

She’d had years of practice coping with such moments, and she pulled herself out of the spiral and forced herself to smile as she mumbled a goodbye and fled. As she got into her car, she told herself she could relax. She needn’t be embarrassed or concerned she would have to explain her reaction. She’d known men like Logan Farrell when she’d lived in Boston, and she doubted she would run into him again. He’d get his grandmother settled, hire someone to decorate her house for Christmas and put her out of his mind once he was back in the city.

* * *

Vera Galeski, in her early sixties, was explaining to Clare the long-standing Knights Bridge tradition of singing carols in the village on Christmas Eve when Logan Farrell entered the library. Clare couldn’t believe her eyes. He made no move to take off his black wool overcoat, a sign he didn’t plan to stay long. He walked straight to her desk—again the brisk, efficient ER doctor more than the sensitive, loving grandson.

With raised eyebrows, Vera retreated to the children’s room in the front of the library.

“I can’t decorate Gran’s house by myself,” Logan said. “I get hives thinking about it.”

He didn’t look as if he were about to break out in anxiety-driven hives. Clare couldn’t hide her amusement. “Really, Dr. Farrell?”

“Logan. Please. All right, hives is an exaggeration, but it’s close. I don’t want to disappoint my grandmother. This move...” He paused, grimacing. “You help me decorate her house for Christmas, and the library can have first crack at her collection of books. Take what you want and I’ll get rid of the rest. She’s a pack rat. She could have valuable first editions.”

“And your grandmother has agreed to this arrangement?”

“She proposed it.”

Clare smiled. “Did you tell her about your hives?”

An unexpected smile played at the corners of his mouth. “She said, ‘Logan, you look as if you’re about to break out in hives.’” But he glanced at the library entrance, as if he was in a hurry and already had stayed longer than he’d meant to. He looked back at Clare, again the busy ER doctor. “You’ll do it?”

The odds she would discover a hidden treasure buried in Daisy Farrell’s house were slim to none, but the library did raise money from periodic book sales and could always use donations.

Logan shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets, an obvious attempt to hide his impatience. “I don’t see a downside,” he said.

You, Clare thought, but she tried to keep her reaction from entering itself into her expression. “I want to be sure I have the time. I’m still getting used to life in Knights Bridge, and I have a first-grader—”

“He can help. Kids love to decorate. I’ll buy him a present. What does he like?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You like to get your way, don’t you?”

“I’m trying to help my grandmother.”

“You’re trying to fob off helping your grandmother onto me.”

“I said I’d help.”

“When?”

“I’m off this weekend.”

Clare lowered her arms to her sides. “You don’t have any plans to be in Knights Bridge on Christmas Eve, do you?”

“I don’t have plans for Christmas right now. Clare—Mrs. Morgan—”

“Clare is fine, and of course I’ll help decorate your grandmother’s house—as a favor to her. She doesn’t need to donate anything to the library.”

“Not going to be bribed, are you?”

“I have a feeling you and Mrs. Farrell are both good at getting people to do what you want them to do.”

“I’m an amateur compared to Gran.” He sighed in obvious relief. “Thank you.”

Clare expected him to bolt out of there now that he’d gotten his way, but he didn’t move. He eyed her, his knowing gaze somehow reminding her he was an emergency physician. “Gran’s mention of accidents at Christmas got to you,” he said finally.

“I don’t know why it did. I hope it didn’t make her feel awkward.”

“She’s lived a long life. She’s had her share of hardships and tragedies.” Logan left it at that and stood straight. “We can start on Saturday, then?”

Clare nodded. “I have the weekend off.”

“Good. It shouldn’t take long to decorate the place. Let’s meet at the house at nine. Will that suit you?”

“That works for me.”

“Good. I’ll see you then,” he added, already on his way toward the front door.

When the door thudded shut behind him, Clare sank into the chair at her desk and breathed.

What had she just done?

Nothing dramatic or insane, she told herself. She’d agreed to help decorate a house with an intense, good-looking, out-of-town ER doctor who wanted to please his grandmother. Any romantic implications were in her head—not that she was thinking along those lines, or, certainly, that he was.

“Seriously,” she told herself.

She was simply a means to an end for Logan Farrell.

* * *

It was dark when Clare left the library. She drove the short distance to Maggie and Brandon Sloan’s fixer-upper “gingerbread house” off South Main. Maggie was a local caterer with enough energy for ten people. Putting bits and pieces of their conversations together, Clare had concluded that Maggie and her carpenter husband, childhood sweethearts, had come through a rough patch in their marriage.

Maggie had on a chef’s apron covered in flour, some of it in her red curls. “It’s pandemonium in here,” she said cheerfully.

She wasn’t exaggerating. Aidan, Tyler and Owen had transformed the living room into a pirate island.

“Brandon’s brother is engaged to an actual pirate expert,” Maggie said. “She’s a good sport about the boys’ idea of pirates. They just finished a treasure hunt, so your timing is perfect. All’s well. No fights, no stitches.” She didn’t sound as if either would be out of the ordinary, or bother her, within reason.

Owen was flushed with excitement, enjoying his new friends. As he put on his jacket, he and the two Sloan boys made plans on their own for a future get-together, as if their mothers weren’t standing there.

Maggie took the opportunity to lean in to Clare. “I heard you’re helping decorate the Farrell house.”

“News travels fast in this town.”

“Audrey Frost told her granddaughter, Olivia, who told me, one of her best friends. Daisy’s a peach. It’ll be great to see her house decorated one last time. I can’t imagine her not living there. I’m sure she’d love to have it stay in the family, but no interest there. It happens. People have their own lives.”

“How many children does she have?”

“Just the son. Two grandchildren—a grandson and a granddaughter in Boston.”

“I met Logan today,” Clare said, keeping her voice neutral.

“That’s what I hear. ER doctor in Boston. I’m surprised he helped Daisy move, but he’s probably anxious to get her house on the market—not for the money, I don’t mean that. Just to be done with it. I’ve run into him a few times when he’s visited his grandparents. He strikes me as very efficient, the sort you want in an emergency if not for a heart-to-heart chat.”

“Not strong on bedside manner?”

“You’ve met him,” Maggie said knowingly. “What do you think?”

Clare considered a moment. “I think he’s the sort of man who knows how to get what he wants.”

“Daisy knows how to get what she wants, too. Trust me, if she hadn’t wanted to make this move, she’d still be living around the corner. But I think her fall scared even her, and she hates to be a bother.” Maggie peeled off her apron and tossed it onto the back of a chair. “If you need any help with decorating, you know where to find me.”

Clare thanked her and left with Owen. She turned her attention to his day, but as they drove out to their small apartment in a converted nineteenth-century sawmill, she thought of the faded photograph of Daisy Farrell’s house decorated for Christmas so long ago. For whatever reason, she’d latched onto the candle in the window. That, for sure, Clare thought, she and Logan could manage.

Two

“Bah,” said Scrooge, “Humbug.”

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

LOGAN ARRIVED AT his apartment in a high-rise in Boston’s Copley Square in time to get ready to meet friends for dinner. He pulled off his overcoat and headed into his bedroom. A quick change of clothes, and he’d be off to a hip, expensive restaurant. It wouldn’t be a late night. He had to be at the hospital early. But as he pulled off his clothes, he felt dusty and tired, not from hauling boxes—from the emotions of the day.

Not like him, he thought.

He’d run the Boston Marathon. He’d survived the long hours and hard work to become a physician specializing in emergency medicine. Physical and mental fatigue he knew how to manage. Emotional fatigue...

He shook off the thought of it and forced himself not to give in to the mess of emotions that had been swirling around in his head since he’d arrived in Knights Bridge last night. He put on fresh clothes and headed out, walking over to Newbury Street and the trendy restaurant where his friends already had a table.

“How is sleepy Knights Bridge?” Paul, another ER doctor, asked when Logan joined him and his wife, Josie, a pediatrician.

Logan couldn’t help but think of his grandmother spending her first night in her new apartment. Was she lonely? Disoriented? Immersing herself in memories of her home on the town common?

“Logan?” Paul shook his head. “That sleepy, huh? You’re zoned out.”

“Sorry. Long day.”

“How’s your grandmother?” Josie asked.

“Settling in. She’s putting on a brave face, but it can’t be easy moving into a new place after all this time.”

“But she’s thought about it,” Paul said. “She’s known this day could come.”

“Not one for denial, you Farrells,” Josie added with a smile.

“That’s true. Gran’s one of those people you think will always be around. She’s in her eighties, and I know better—I know there are more days behind her than ahead...” Logan didn’t allow himself to go far down that road. “I like to think she’s genuinely excited about her move into assisted living.”

“It needed to be done,” Paul said.

Josie rolled her eyes. “Mr. Sensitivity.”

“What? It’s true, isn’t it, Logan?”

“We could have arranged for her to stay at home. She needs assistance. She knows that. She says moving into assisted living allows her to be independent and still get the help she needs at this season in her life.”

“You sound like a brochure for the place,” Paul said. “Martini?”

Logan smiled, pushing past his melancholy. “That sounds perfect.”

But his mind drifted to Clare Morgan, the new Knights Bridge librarian, with her pale blond hair, blue eyes, freckles and shapely body beneath her winter layers. He’d observed a distinct back-and-forth in her between a spine of steel and a heart of gold. She’d pegged him straight off as an SOB. Not that he hadn’t contributed to her opinion, but he suspected there was more to it than his impatient exchange with the receptionist—for which he’d apologized, again, before leaving his grandmother. The receptionist had taken his impatience in stride. He suspected she’d seen a lot in her work, but that didn’t excuse his rudeness.

He tuned back in to the conversation with his friends. He ended up enjoying the evening—the martini, Paul’s irreverence and Josie’s sense of humor helped—but when he walked home, he noticed the festive lights and decorations celebrating the season and realized he hadn’t paid attention until now. He’d yet to put up a tree in his apartment. He doubted he would bother. What was the point? He didn’t entertain there, and he had no woman in his life. He remembered going out to the old Farrell farm on the outskirts of Knights Bridge as a boy with his grandfather. They’d go out into the fields and cut a Christmas tree. His own life had been in suburban Boston, not in Knights Bridge. He’d loved his grandfather, but when he’d died two years ago, Logan had realized how little he knew about Tom Farrell’s life. His father had left Knights Bridge for college and life as a lawyer in the Boston suburbs. No one had been more surprised than Logan when his parents had decided to retire to the Farrell farm—just not right away. They were presently on a Christmas Market cruise in Europe.

Logan stood in his living room and looked out at the city lights. When his phone rang, he was surprised to see it was his father. “Is it snowing?” he asked when Logan picked up.

“Not at the moment.”

“We have just enough snow here to keep things festive.”

“It’s six hours later there. What are you doing up?”

“I’m somewhere between East Coast and Austrian time. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help your grandmother move. I called at eight. She said she was about to tuck herself into bed. She seems content.”

“I think so.” They chatted for a few minutes about the move. Logan remembered the photograph his grandmother had pinpointed in the album. “Do you know if the Christmas of 1945 has any particular meaning for Gran?”

“It was the end of the war. Her father survived. He served in the Atlantic in the navy. He died when I was twelve, but he never talked about his war years—I’m not sure he would have with me, since I was just a kid. He and my grandmother lived with us. She died a couple of years after he did. The war...”

“A long time ago,” Logan said.

“For us. For Mom, it must feel like the blink of an eye.”

Logan stepped back from the window and its familiar view. “The local librarian is going to help me decorate the house.”

“Good, because one thing we Farrell men have in common—Pop, you and me—is not having an eye for decorating. You’ll need the help.”

“Do you ever wish you’d become a firefighter?”

“Many times. Pop was proud when I decided to go into the law—Mom, too. They said they understood I needed to be in Boston, but I’m sure they secretly wished I’d opened up a practice in Knights Bridge.” He chuckled. “Well, in Mom’s case, not so secretly, but she got over it.”

“No regrets?”

His father was silent a moment. “Not when I see you and your sister, no. You’ve taken on a demanding career. The burnout rate for emergency physicians is pretty high. Take time to have a life, son. The work is good, but it will always be there. My pop used to tell me that. I wish I’d done a better job of listening.”

Logan shifted the subject to his parents’ cruise, but it was obvious his father was fading. After they disconnected, Logan took a shower, which he wouldn’t have time for in the morning, his head swimming with memories. His grandfather’s funeral, the church overflowing with well-wishers, Gran stoic but ever so sad. She was doing fine health wise, but given her advanced age, anything could happen anytime. She knew it, too. But she would tell him every day mattered, regardless of one’s age.

By the time he collapsed into bed, he was happy that he had three twelve-hour shifts before his return to Knights Bridge.

* * *

Friday arrived faster than Logan had anticipated. He’d left clothes and toiletries at his grandmother’s house and only stopped at his apartment long enough to grab a pair of winter boots. He didn’t know why he’d need boots to visit his grandmother and decorate her house, but it seemed like a good idea to have them for a December weekend in Knights Bridge. He hadn’t checked the forecast. For all he knew, they could be in for a blizzard.

The drive west was uneventful, with reasonable traffic and no snow or the dreaded “wintry mix.” By the time he wound his way into Knights Bridge, the stars were out. Every house and business on the common was lit up for the holidays—except his grandmother’s house. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before that it wasn’t decorated. He’d been preoccupied with the practicalities of her move, he supposed.

A few people—both adults and children—were skating on the rink on the south end of the common, their graceful and not-so-graceful moves silhouetted under portable lights. He’d gone skating with his grandfather a few times, never his parents or his grandmother. He couldn’t remember the last time he and his old grandpa had hit the ice together, but Tom Farrell had skated until his last two years of life. Bundled up, Daisy would sit on a bench on the rink and watch him, her own skating days having ended in her early seventies.

“Eighty and out skating, Grandpa,” Logan said aloud as he pulled into the driveway next to the house. “Not bad.”

The house was as cold as a tomb—not the best image but it was in his head before he could stop it. Before he’d left town earlier in the week, he’d turned down the heat as far as he could without risking frozen pipes. Turning up the thermostat was the first order of business. While the heat kicked on, he unloaded the car.

A middle-aged man walked across the street from the common. “Hello, Logan. Randy Frost. I worked with your grandfather as a volunteer firefighter when he was chief. I just retired myself.”

“It’s good to see you, Randy,” Logan said.

“Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Your mother is Audrey Frost. She’s encouraging my grandmother to do yoga.”

“She and Daisy are tight. Kind of the way it is here. In most small towns, I expect. Need any help getting Daisy settled?”

“I think I got most everything, thanks.”

“Always feel free to ask for help. We’d all do anything for her.”

The implication, however unintended, was that her own family had neglected her. Logan felt an urge to defend himself with the usual protestations about the demands of his profession, but Randy Frost wouldn’t care and it was nineteen degrees out.

Randy didn’t look as if he cared about the cold temperature, either.

Logan thanked him for his offer to help. “Were you ice-skating?”

“Me? No. I stopped by to watch Dylan McCaffrey skate with my daughter. They’re getting married on Christmas Eve. He played professional hockey for a few years. Grew up in Los Angeles and ends up in the NHL. Go figure. You a hockey fan, Logan?”

“I’m a Bruins fan. I played hockey in high school but I was never any good at it.”

“We can’t be good at everything.” Randy motioned toward the mostly dark house. “Daisy’s got you decorating the place?”

Logan raised his eyebrows. “Your mother told you that, too?”

“She’s her own Knights Bridge All News Network, but no, Clare Morgan mentioned it the other day.”

“I see,” Logan said, although he didn’t.

“She lives in an apartment at the sawmill my wife and I run. It can be hard to be new in town, and everyone here loved her predecessor at the library, Phoebe O’Dunn. Phoebe’s engaged to Dylan’s business partner, Noah Kendrick. Southern California tech guy.”

Logan smiled. “I’m lost.”

Randy winked at him. “That’s because you’re not from around here. If you were, you’d follow right along. When do you plan to put the house on the market?”

“That’s up to my grandmother.”

“Right. Well, we know old houses around here. Let me know if you need to do any work on it before you put up the For Sale sign.”

“I will.”

Logan expected Randy Frost would turn around and walk back to the common, but he stood there. Scrutinizing the big-city doctor, Logan thought, feeling the older man’s distrust. Logan understood Randy’s wariness, shared by other people in town. To them, he was a busy physician from the city who hadn’t visited his grandparents as much as he’d have liked—maybe as much as he should have. Obviously he hadn’t visited as much as the people of Knights Bridge thought he should have.

“Good luck with decorating,” the older man said finally, about-facing and heading back across the street before Logan could answer.

Relieved that little encounter was over, he went inside. The house was heating up nicely. He put away his groceries in a cupboard above the sink that his grandmother had cleared out for him before her move. “You’re always welcome to stay here,” she’d told him. “As long as I have this place, it’s your home, too. You can toss out the rest of the stuff in these cabinets. I won’t be needing it.”

There’d been no self-pity in her tone, but that didn’t mean other people in town didn’t pity her—and blame Logan for her move into assisted living. His father, too. Logan understood that his grandmother could have decided to move and put on a positive face to spare her family, but he’d been looking for hints of doubt and hidden meaning and had seen none. She’d been adamant that whether to move was her decision to make, and she’d made it.

There wasn’t any arguing with Daisy Farrell once she’d made up her mind, and if the rest of Knights Bridge thought he was a lout, then Logan figured so be it. He didn’t owe them an explanation.

As he wandered through the first floor of the house, he noticed the places where the few possessions she’d taken to her new apartment had been. He could see her and his grandfather reading by the fireplace in the front room, watching the Red Sox in the family room, painting the woodwork in the hall. It was hard to imagine them apart, but after his grandfather’s death, his grandmother had taken Logan’s hand into hers and warned him not to feel sorry for her. “I’m thankful for the years your grandpa and I had together,” she’d said. “We were truly blessed.”

More stiff-upper-lip nonsense, maybe, Logan thought with a hiss of impatience. How was he supposed to know if she was leveling with him? What had she done when he’d returned to Boston after his grandfather’s funeral? Had she been at peace, filled with gratitude, on dark nights alone in this place?

But “alone” was relative, wasn’t it? Knights Bridge, not just this house, was Daisy Farrell’s home.

Or was that just a rationalization on his part?

Maybe he was a heartless SOB.

He smiled to himself, shaking off his melancholy. Time to get down to business. He texted Clare Morgan.

9 a.m. start still all right with you?

He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and went out to the car for his boots. If he needed them, he wanted them warm. Shoving his feet into cold boots wasn’t on the top of his list of fun things to do.

When he got back inside, Clare had responded. I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?

He couldn’t think of what. Glue? Fresh greens? A nail gun? Tape? He had no idea what was involved in decorating a village house for the holidays. He settled on a vague response. We can decide what we need when you get here.

Sounds good. See you then.

He didn’t detect anything tentative in her response but wouldn’t be surprised if she regretted agreeing to help. He supposed he’d taken advantage of her newness in town. It was natural for her to want to make a good impression. Helping decorate beloved Daisy Farrell’s house would be a plus. But that hadn’t been his intent. Logan wasn’t quite sure how to describe his intent, but it probably had something to do with not wanting Clare to think he was a jerk who’d browbeaten a receptionist and forced his grandmother into assisted living.

Then there was Clare Morgan herself. He doubted she’d expected to run into anyone under seventy, except for staff, when she’d carried her box of books into the assisted-living facility. How could he have not noticed the curve of her hip and her unmistakable annoyance when she’d overheard him?

He noticed a library newsletter on a table by the fireplace. It included a note from the chairman of the board of trustees welcoming their new library director.

Logan sat on the couch and read.

Clare Morgan comes to Knights Bridge from the Boston Public Library, our nation’s oldest public library. It’s been her fondest dream to work in a small-town library, and with family roots in the lost towns of the Swift River Valley, she’s pleased to be in our small town. Please take the time to welcome her and her son, Owen, to Knights Bridge.

“Well, well,” Logan said aloud.

So, the fair-haired, book-toting small-town librarian knew something of the big city herself. He wondered how long it would take him to find out what had happened to her husband, then dismissed the thought. He could push people and rules to the limit when it suited him, but he wasn’t crossing that line. If Clare wanted him to know, she could tell him.

Whatever her background, Logan figured he could do worse for decorating help. It could be Randy Frost showing up at nine o’clock tomorrow instead of pretty Clare Morgan.

* * *

Fruit, carrot sticks, cheese and a glass of wine sufficed for dinner. Soon after, Logan, bored, went upstairs to the back bedroom where he used to stay as a boy. It had been his father’s room and he doubted it had changed since then. It had two twin beds with a matching dresser and bookshelves. He found a biography of Abraham Lincoln and crawled under the covers in one of the beds. He’d made it up when he’d stayed over earlier in the week. Until then, he’d never slept in this house alone. He remembered his grandfather chasing a bat that had swooped down the attic stairs, but that had been in the summer. Logan wouldn’t have to deal with bats tonight.

Nightmares, maybe.

The pipes dinged and pinged with a rush of heat. Wind rattled the windows. A cat yowled in the backyard. Kids—teenagers, he thought—laughed and shouted at each other in the distance, presumably as the skating rink shut down for the night.

As an emergency physician, Logan had developed the skill for falling asleep anytime, anywhere, but he knew he had his work cut out for him tonight.

Three

“The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

“WE NEED A bigger house, Mom,” Owen announced over breakfast. He was still in his pajamas, seated across from Clare at the small table that had come with their apartment.

“You have your own room,” she said. She was still in her nightgown and bathrobe, enjoying the lazy winter morning.

Her son raised his gaze to her. “But you don’t have a room.”

“That’s why there’s a sofa bed. The living room turns into my bedroom.”

He looked dubious. He pointed his cereal spoon at her. “And I can hear the brook at night.”

“Even with the windows shut?”

“Uh-huh. It keeps me awake.”

“Some people find water soothing. The brook will probably freeze before long, and you won’t hear anything but the occasional trickle, if that.”

“There are bears and foxes in the woods. Aidan and Tyler said so.”

Probably true, Clare thought. “I saw three deer last night after you went to bed,” she said.

Her son’s face lit up. “Deer!”

“You’ll see them soon, too. Now let’s finish our breakfast and get dressed. We have a big day ahead of us.”

He dug his spoon into his cereal. “I want to go ice-skating.”

“I have something I need to do this morning. You can help me. Maybe we can go skating this afternoon.”

“Aidan and Tyler said I could go with them and their dad.”

“I want to be with you when you go out on this rink for the first time. It’s not like the indoor rinks you know. Maybe we can go later.”

“You said that last time.”

“Did I? All right. We’ll talk about it on the way into town. Hurry up.”

There were times when Owen so reminded her of his father. Like now, she thought. He had the Morgan scowl, and somehow it made her notice his Morgan chin more, too. He finished his cereal, needed a reminder to take his bowl to the sink and then was off into the sole bedroom. Their apartment was charming and worked well for the two of them, but it was small—even compared to their apartment in the city.

But she loved the atmosphere of the renovated nineteenth-century sawmill, still with its original dam on a rambling, rock-strewn stream. Once she was settled in to her job and had a better feel for the town, she would buy a house in Knights Bridge. Right now, thinking about such a major change—planting real roots here—made her heart race. Her sawmill apartment was fine at least through the winter.

Owen came out of his bedroom chattering about ice-skating. There’d be no talking him out of it, Clare knew. The boy had the bit in his teeth and wouldn’t let go. She had to find a way to make it happen that would satisfy him but reassure her. She hadn’t told him about the secondhand skates yet. She couldn’t place her finger on why skating made her nervous—perhaps because she couldn’t skate worth a hoot herself.

Randy Frost greeted them as he walked down from Frost Millworks, located in a modern building above the original sawmill. The small mill provided high-quality custom millwork for construction and renovations throughout the Northeast, focusing on older buildings. Clare didn’t know much about millwork, but she knew if anyone needed to duplicate a vintage window, this was the place to come. That had already happened with an 1830 Knights Bridge home during her short time in town.

“Louise has some extra greenery if you could use it for the library and Daisy’s house,” Randy said. “I’ve got it in the truck if you’re interested.”

Louise was Randy’s wife, who ran the mill with him. “That would be great,” Clare said, not sure how he’d found out about Daisy’s house. “I’m on my way to town now.”

“The good doctor will be there?”

She nodded without comment. Randy chatted with Owen as they walked up to the parking lot. He grabbed live evergreen boughs from the bed of the truck and put them into her trunk. Clare smiled. “They smell heavenly, don’t they?”

That obviously hadn’t occurred to him. She thanked him, and he wished her luck with the decorating. Once in the car, Owen immediately resumed pressing his case for ice-skating. To add to the cards on his side, when they arrived on South Main, Aidan and Tyler Sloan were skipping up the sidewalk with their father, all three carrying ice skates. The boys eagerly invited Owen to join them.

“I have a pair of skates for him in the trunk, but he’s never used them,” Clare explained. “I haven’t checked them out yet.”

But Logan Farrell came out of the house. “I can take a look at them and make sure they’re in decent shape. What do you think, Clare? Would that be all right with you?”

She nodded, trying to ignore the tightness in her stomach as she popped the trunk to her car.

Brandon Sloan, a strong, competent-looking man, eyed her as if he could tell what she was thinking. “I’ll stick close to Owen.”

“He’s only skated a few times and always indoors.”

“Nothing like your first time skating outdoors. It’s not a lake or a pond. Even if the ice cracks, nothing will happen.”

“He’s excited,” Clare said. “It’s easy to get ahead of yourself when you’re excited. He needs to pay attention to the other skaters.”

“I won’t let him get bowled over,” Brandon said, cuffing Owen on the shoulder. “Right, kiddo?”

Owen giggled. “What’s bowled over?”

“Flattened.” Brandon grinned at Clare, matter-of-fact. “Helps to be clear with kids.”

She appreciated his nonchalance but couldn’t shake her concern. “There’s also hypothermia—”

Logan eased in next to her. “It’s not that cold today. He’ll work up a head of steam.”

“It’ll be fine,” Brandon added. “Relax, okay?”

Clare breathed, tried to smile. “Thank you.”

Logan grabbed the skates and took Owen onto the porch to try them on and make sure they were okay.

Aidan and Tyler were clearly getting restless. “Two more minutes,” their father told them, turning back to Clare. “Dylan McCaffrey will be out on the ice this morning. He was a professional hockey player. He’s had stitches a few times, but he still has all his teeth.”

“Hockey players wear helmets and play in indoor rinks with walls.”

Brandon rested back on his heels. “You’re getting yourself spooled up, aren’t you, Clare?”

“I am. Sorry.” She gave a small laugh. “Owen’s had so much new to deal with—with the move. New home, new school, new friends. And six isn’t five. He’s getting more independent. I don’t want to suffocate him but he’s still so young.”

“She’s in mama-bear mode,” Logan said, walking down the porch steps with Owen trotting happily next to him, ice skates in hand.

“Got it,” Brandon said with a grin.

“The skates are fine,” Logan added.

Clare knelt in front of her son. “Now, Owen, you can go skating with your friends, but you have to listen to Brandon. Understand?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Aidan and Tyler have more experience skating than you do. That’s okay. You don’t have to keep up with them. You’ll learn. Be patient with yourself.”

Logan adjusted Owen’s hat. “Best way to learn to skate better is to get out on the ice and go for it. Have fun.”

Owen smiled up at him. “Thanks, Logan.”

Already he was Logan, not Dr. Farrell? Clare kept her mouth shut as Brandon collected the three boys and headed across South Main to the common. She breathed deeply, her mind racing with possibilities of what could happen. Hurt feelings, the two more experienced boys running off and leaving Owen because he couldn’t keep up, kids teasing him because he was the inexperienced skater—the new kid in town who didn’t know anything.

Hypothermia. Stitches. Concussion. Broken bones.

“Clare.”

She dragged herself out of her thoughts and gave another small laugh to cover for herself. “Mind wandering. Thank you for helping with the skates.”

“Not a problem.”

She remembered the boughs from the Frosts and returned to her trunk. “I don’t know what we’ll do with them, but they smell nice, don’t they?”

“Sure do,” Logan said, grabbing most of them.

She gathered the rest and followed him inside through the front door and down a center hall to a cozy kitchen with white-painted cabinets. They set the evergreens on the table.

He brushed off his arms. “I think I got spruce needles down my neck.”

Clare laughed. “Me, too. At least we’re not allergic. I mean—I assume you’re not if you carried...”

“I’m not allergic.”

She glanced around the kitchen, its cabinets and countertops worn but serviceable. The gas stove looked fairly new—within the past decade, anyway. Windows by the table and over the sink looked out on the backyard, covered in light snow. She imagined it in spring, with flowers, green grass and shade trees.

Logan stood next to her at a window. “Gran gave up keeping bird feeders. She had a bad fall hanging a feeder a few years ago. She doesn’t give up easily, but she didn’t want birds counting on her if she couldn’t get out there in the snow.”

“She’ll enjoy the bird feeders at Rivendell, then.”

“I’m sure she will. She’ll have Grace Webster to instruct her.”

“I understand that Grace is the Knights Bridge resident bird expert.”

“That’s what I hear.” He nodded to the evergreens on the table. “Any plans for what to do with them?”

“I figure ideas will emerge as we get into the decorating. I assume we’re only decorating outside. No point decorating inside if no one will be here.”

“I did tell Gran I’d light a candle on Christmas Eve. I suppose I could delegate it, or drive straight back to Boston.”

“Have you ever spent Christmas in Knights Bridge?”

“When my sister and I were kids. Grandpa would take us out on the tractor on the Farrell farm to cut a Christmas tree.”

“You must have great memories.”

“I’d give anything to cut a tree with him now. I don’t care if I’m in my thirties.”

“I gather from everything I’ve heard about him that your grandfather was something. I can see for myself your grandmother still is. Shall we get started?”

His eyes steadied on her. “What about your grandparents, Clare?”

“All four are still with us. My paternal grandparents retired to South Carolina and love it, and my maternal grandparents live in Amherst with my parents. We have roots in the area. My family on my mother’s side settled in Enfield early in the nineteenth century.”

“One of the Quabbin towns.”

“I always thought I’d be a small-town librarian, but I ended up in Boston.”

“Because of your husband?”

“In part. I liked my job, too. And I like Boston.”

Logan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest. “But it came time to leave and make a fresh start.”

“Yes.”

“Not just for Owen’s sake—for your own, too?”

It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded as if he already knew the answer. Clare nodded. “Owen didn’t need a fresh start. He was happy in Boston, but I thought the move would be good for both of us.” She grabbed a pair of heavy-duty scissors out of a pottery container on the counter. “Why don’t I trim some of the dead stuff off the evergreens while you check the front porch for a good spot for them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

His gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds. It was obvious he knew she’d deliberately changed the subject. She couldn’t tell if he also knew he’d gone too far in asking about her reason for leaving Boston.

Did Logan Farrell ever worry about going too far with anything?

He headed down the hall without another word. Decorating his grandmother’s house for Christmas couldn’t be his idea of an exciting Saturday. He could have hired out the job, Clare thought, but he was here, doing it—if with her help.

She heard a screech and jumped, immediately thinking of Owen, but then realized it was a car hitting its brakes. But before she could relax she thought, why? Why was a car hitting its brakes hard on South Main? Had Owen slipped away from his friends to come find her?

She shook her head. “Stop. Just stop.”

She realized Logan had come back down the hall and was standing in the doorway. “You all right?”

She smiled. “Just crazy.”

“Ah. Crazy I can understand.”

“I’ve been...” She snipped a browned twig off a bough. “I’ve been a little hyped up since we moved. Life’s different here. We don’t know a lot of people. Owen’s making friends but I worry. A mother’s prerogative, right?”

“Within reason,” Logan said.

“A straight answer. I try not to let worrying get out of hand. I don’t want Owen to be fearful because of me, or to decide not to do things because he doesn’t want to upset me. It’s a balancing act.”

“He’s moving from being a toddler under constant supervision to branching out a bit more.”

“Owen’s still under supervision.”

“But he’s six, not two.”

“Or sixteen,” Clare added with a smile. “I know what you’re getting at. I had a dozen different scenarios flash before me as Owen went off with the Sloan boys.”

“Did any of them end with happy, flushed faces and hot chocolate?”

She laughed, snipping another dead twig. “That’s a perfect image.”

“Gran’s probably got cocoa in a cupboard.”

“A plan for the day is developing.”

“And,” he said, entering the kitchen, “I found a good spot for your evergreens.”

He grabbed a knife and helped Clare trim the boughs. Once finished, they took them out to the porch and arranged them on the rail, tacking them down with string he’d found in a kitchen drawer.

“Not bad,” Logan said, appraising their initial handiwork. “It’s a start.”

“We can do more once we find out what all is available to us.”

“Gran says she stores Christmas decorations in the attic. Are you game?”

Clare nodded. “Sure.”

“You’re not thinking about what could go wrong in the attic of an old house, are you?”

“Are you suggesting I catastrophize, Dr. Farrell?”

“Sorry. I was out of line.”

“I guess you couldn’t be an ER doctor if you worried too much about other people’s feelings. You have to stay focused on what you’re doing.”

“It helps, but there’s no excuse for being an inconsiderate idiot.”

“Maybe, but I’d rather have a doctor with no bedside manner who’s good at medicine than a doctor with great bedside manner who’s not as good at medicine.”

“You can have both in the same person.”

“That’s the best-case scenario, of course.” Clare stopped herself before her mind could drift into the past. A Boston emergency department, rushing doctors and nurses and the worst news she could imagine. Aware of Logan’s scrutiny, she pulled open the front door. “I love old attics. Shall we?”

“After you.”

* * *

Logan led the way up to the second floor and then up steep, narrow stairs to a full attic under insulated eaves and heavy beams. Clare had expected an overstuffed jumble of dusty furniture and old trunks, but the attic, although jam-packed, was tidy, with cardboard and plastic boxes neatly stacked and labeled, two large trunks, four ladder-back chairs, a mahogany desk and several old bed frames.

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